Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

I involuntarily shuddered. “How old was she when she died?”

  “About ten or eleven. Ellen married late in life to a man with a lot of money and never had another child. She and her husband died in a car wreck a few years later.”

  Mrs. Fairmont reached over and raised the cup to her lips. Her right hand shook slightly, but she didn’t spill a drop.

  “That’s good coffee for decaf,” she sighed. “Thank you.”

  I moved away from the bed. “I’m leaving for my first day of work at Mr. Braddock’s law firm. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Run along. With Flip’s help, I’ll try to hold on to my sanity.”

  I STOPPED FOR A LAST GLANCE at myself in the mirror in the green parlor. I looked appropriately professional and resolute. I practiced a quick smile that left me unsatisfied. People complimented me on my smile, even though the right corner of my lip curled up slightly higher than the left. I turned away from the mirror before a vain thought lodged in my brain.

  The early morning sun served notice that it would be warm by the end of the day. I walked briskly down the steps and turned in the direction of the law office. My shoes didn’t have high heels, but it was different from navigating the uneven sidewalks in running shoes. My feet crushed acorns left from the previous year’s crop. I noticed details that had escaped me during my morning run. All of the houses were old, but there was remarkable variety in the use of brick or wood, the shape and placement of windows, the design of the front doors, and countless other nuances. I didn’t try to take it all in at once. I knew that by the end of the summer, the walk to work would be as familiar to me as the woods on the west side of our house in Powell Station.

  I passed a man walking his dog and two joggers running in the opposite direction. I crossed several intersections and reached Montgomery Street. The law office was several blocks from the Chatham County Courthouse, a modern structure uninfluenced by the beautiful area nearby. Traffic was busier on Montgomery Street, and when I reached Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, my heart began to pound in my chest. A few cars were in the parking lot.

  “Make this a place of praise,” I began to repeat under my breath.

  I knew the prayer was right, but it didn’t send peace to my heart. I’d felt less nervous trying to make a crucial free throw at the end of a conference tournament basketball game. I took a deep breath when I reached the front door and opened it.

  The receptionist sat to the right of the sweeping staircase. My low heels clicked on the wooden floor.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Tami Taylor, one of the summer clerks,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t shake. “I’m here to see Ms. Patrick.”

  The receptionist spoke to someone on the phone.

  “Have a seat,” she said to me. “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  I sat in a wooden chair with curved arms and legs. The front door of the office opened, and a young woman entered. It was Julie Feldman, also dressed in a dark suit and white blouse. Without noticing me, she approached the receptionist. Julie was shorter than I’d imagined from the pictures sent via the Internet and a lot cuter. Her black hair was cut short. The receptionist pointed in my direction. Julie’s eyes met mine, and she smiled. She sat down on a leather couch beside my chair and introduced herself.

  “Are you nervous?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. I’ve talked to two of my friends who have been working for a week at big law firms in Atlanta. They told me not to treat it like summer camp. Their firms don’t want them to get bored, and the partner in charge of summer clerks has a bunch of activities planned to keep them entertained. I told them Atlanta may be different from Savannah.”

  Julie spoke rapidly, her dark eyes alert.

  “All I know is that we’re going to a luncheon today with the lawyers,” I replied. “Ms. Patrick says it may be the only time all the partners are with us.”

  Julie nodded. “I’ve talked to her a bunch. Mr. Carpenter told me to meet with her this morning.”

  I wondered why I’d not received personal contact from the senior partner. Perhaps it was because I was a fill-in.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Okay, I guess. He came to the law school for an interview day. I didn’t think he liked me, but then I got the job offer. Did you find a place to live?”

  I told her about Mrs. Fairmont’s house.

  “You’re not far from my place near Greene Square. We’ll have to go out together some at night.”

  My defenses flew up. “It depends on Mrs. Fairmont’s condition.

  Staying at her house is actually a second job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She has health issues,” I replied, not wanting to give details that Mrs. Bartlett might want to remain private.

  Julie lowered her voice. “Maybe you can sneak out after hours.

  I’ve already been to River Street twice. It’s a lot of fun.”

  A middle-aged woman with dark hair and reading glasses on a chain around her neck came down the stairs and introduced herself.

  It was Gerry Patrick. Ms. Patrick was the same height as Julie. She gave Julie a quick hug and shook my hand.

  “Did you move in yesterday?” she asked me crisply.

  “Yes ma’am. Mrs. Fairmont completely renovated the downstairs apartment.”

  “That’s good to hear. Let’s go to a conference room. Vince Colbert is already here this morning. He’s working on a project for Mr. Braddock.”

  When Ms. Patrick turned away, Julie leaned over and whispered, “Vince must be a gunner.”

  We went into one of the plush downstairs conference rooms Zach had shown me during my first visit. Ms. Patrick sat at the end of the table and offered us coffee or water. She then pushed the intercom button on the phone.

  “Deborah, send Vince into conference room two.”

  I crossed my ankles under the shiny table. Opposite me was a massive oil painting of a harbor scene from the early nineteenth century. I could see bales of cotton piled on a wharf in front of a row of sailing ships. Scores of people filled the scene. The detail in the painting would have taken a long time to create.

  “Is that Savannah?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ms. Patrick said. “Mr. Braddock lets the art museum keep it for a year then brings it back to the office for twelve months.”

  The door to the conference room opened and a tall, lanky young man with wavy brown hair and dark eyes came into the room. He was wearing a dark blue sport coat, gray slacks, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He was carrying a very thin laptop computer in his right hand.

  “Vince, meet Julie Feldman and Tami Taylor,” Ms. Patrick said.

  When I shook the male clerk’s hand, I noticed a large, rectangular-shaped scar on it. The skin was oddly wrinkled and lacked pigment. I quickly glanced up. His eyes were on my face. He released his grip and sat on the opposite side of the table with his right hand out of sight.

  “Vince already knows what I’m going to tell you,” Ms. Patrick began. “But Mr. Carpenter wanted the three of you to have a sense of starting together.”

  She distributed cards that would give us access to the building twenty-four hours a day and rapidly outlined a lot of details about office procedures: names of support staff and their job duties, locations of copy machines and the codes to input when using them, Internet research policies, areas of specialty for each of the lawyers, and office schedules. Vince’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Neither Julie nor I had anything to write on. Ms. Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

  “Will all this be included in an information packet or should I take notes?” I asked when she paused.

  “You can copy my notes,” Vince replied.

  He slid the computer across the table. Julie and I leaned in and looked at the screen. He’d typed in almost every word on a template that made it look like a corporate flow chart.

  “That works for me,” Julie said.

/>   “I don’t own a laptop computer,” I said, trying not to sound whiny. “Does the firm supply one?”

  “Not for summer clerks,” Ms. Patrick replied. “The younger lawyers bring one to meetings, but most partners don’t. It’s a generational difference.”

  I concentrated hard through the rest of the meeting. At least my memory, forged in the front room of the house in Powell Station, went with me everywhere. And it never needed rebooting.

  “That’s it,” Ms. Patrick said in conclusion. “Any questions?”

  I didn’t know what to ask and kept my mouth shut. Julie spoke.

  “How will we circulate through the different sections of the firm?”

  It was a good question, and I wished I’d thought to ask it.

  “You’ll find out at the luncheon. There isn’t time during the summer for you to spend a lot of time with each partner. Anything else?”

  “Is there a dress code?” I asked.

  “This is a traditional firm with clients who expect a professional appearance at all times. We don’t wear blue jeans on Friday.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t own a pair of jeans.”

  The other three people stared at me. I’d needlessly blurted out controversial information. I wanted to crawl under the table.

  “Any other questions?” Ms. Patrick asked after an awkward pause.

  I pressed my lips tightly together. The progress I’d made with Ms.

  Patrick after meeting with Christine Bartlett had been nullified by the events of the past few days.

  “Very well,” the office manager said. “Vince, you can return to your project with Mr. Braddock. Julie, Mr. Carpenter wants to meet with you in his office. Tami, wait here.”

  Left alone in the conference room, I had nothing to do but stare at the painting. Many of the figures on the wharf were slaves, toiling without pay in the burning heat as they loaded the heavy cotton bales onto the ships. I suspected the painter intended to portray normal life. However, normal in one era can be barbarian to the next. The slaves, a people oppressed for no reason except the color of their skin, illustrated that truth with a massive exclamation point. The painting was an indefensible snapshot of injustice. I sighed. Oppression took many forms, and often, the society of the day didn’t recognize it.

  Ms. Patrick returned to the conference room. I started to offer an apology but before I could start, she spoke.

  “Come with me,” she said from the doorway. “You’re going to assist one of the paralegals this morning.”

  There was no denying my relegation to the bottom rank of the summer clerks. I recognized the large open work areas that were filling with people. We walked down a hall to an open door.

  “Myra,” Ms. Patrick began, “this is Tami Taylor.”

  The paralegal glanced up from a stack of papers on her desk. “Welcome, nice to see you again.”

  Ms. Patrick looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Zach Mays introduced us when I came by the office on a Saturday a few weeks ago,” I said.

  Ms. Patrick waved her hand to the paralegal. “She’s all yours until 11:30.”

  “Thank you,” I said to Ms. Patrick’s departing back.

  Myra reached forward and picked up a thick envelope. “I’m in the middle of a project that has to be finished before the end of the day. Do you know where the county courthouse is located?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The paralegal pulled back the envelope. “Unless you think I’m old, call me Myra.”

  “Okay.”

  She handed me the heavy envelope. “This is a response to a motion for preliminary injunction that needs to be filed this morning. Mr.

  Carpenter has a hearing in this case tomorrow, and the other side needs twenty-four hours’ notice. We have electronic filing in federal court but not in the state courts. There are two copies. Have both of them stamped at the clerk’s office, then take one to Judge Cannon’s office. Bring the other back here, and I’ll have a courier take it to the opposing counsel’s office.”

  “I could take it,” I offered.

  “It’s in Brunswick. It would be cutting it close for you to drive down and back before lunch.”

  “Oh, I don’t have a car.”

  Myra stopped and stared at me. Stares had always been part of my life, but a new environment inevitably provoked a rash of them.

  Without further comment the paralegal turned her attention to the documents on her desk, and I backed out of the room.

  My earlier confidence was gone. As I walked down Montgomery Street, the hopelessness of my situation washed over me. I had no business working in Savannah. My success was as unlikely as one of the slaves in the painting making the transition from dock laborer to cotton merchant.

  I reached the courthouse and climbed the steps. After passing through security, I found the clerk’s office where a helpful middle-aged woman date-stamped the response to the motion. But when I tried to pick up both copies, she held on to one of them

  “One of these needs to go in the file. You can serve the other,” she said.

  “No, I need to take it to Judge Cannon’s office. There’s a hearing tomorrow afternoon.”

  The clerk pointed to a copy machine. “Then make another copy.”

  I panicked. “I didn’t bring my purse and don’t have any money.”

  An image of myself hot and sweaty, running back to the office, flashed through my mind.

  “Which law firm do you work for?” the woman asked.

  “Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”

  “Use their copy code.”

  “I’m a summer clerk. It’s my first day, and I don’t have it with me.”

  The woman made a face that showed me I’d reached the end of her patience.

  “Call and get it,” she said.

  “I don’t have a cell phone.”

  The woman rubbed her hand across her forehead and through her hair. Without saying anything else, she reached under the counter and retrieved a black notebook. She flipped open the book and turned it so I could see the firm name with a number beside it.

  “Thank you,” I replied gratefully.

  I made two copies in case I hit another unforeseen roadblock. I left the clerk’s office and found Judge Cannon’s chambers on the directory beside the elevator. It must have been a day for criminal court, because several of the people who joined me on the elevator looked like criminals. No one spoke, but two of the men stole sideways glances at me. I quickly stepped out when the door opened.

  The judge’s office had an anteroom where an older woman sat behind a scarred wooden desk. Public administration of justice didn’t pay as well as the private practice of law. I identified myself and handed the envelope to the woman.

  “The judge has something for you to deliver to Mr. Carpenter,” the woman said in a raspy voice. “I was going to mail it, but you can deliver it in person.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll be glad to.”

  She gave me a sealed envelope. Holding it tightly in my hand along with the service copies of the response to the motion, I retraced my steps to the law firm. It was hot, and I was doubly glad I’d not had to make an extra trip. By the time I reached the foyer of the law office, the cool air felt good on my hot face. I climbed the stairs to Myra’s office. Her door was closed. I knocked.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “Here it is,” I announced. I laid the stamped copies on her desk. I held up the other envelope. “The judge’s secretary gave me this to deliver to Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Take it downstairs to his office,” she said without thanking me and resumed her work.

  I didn’t know where to go so I wandered the hallway looking for clues. I opened one door. An older man with a bald head and wearing glasses glanced up in obvious irritation.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled and quickly closed the door.

  At that moment, Julie Feldman entered the hall.

  “Where’s Mr. Carpenter’s office?” I
asked in relief. “I have something to give him from a judge.”

  “He’s on a conference call with a client, but his secretary is in there,” she replied, pointing to a door next to the one I’d opened.

  “What does he look like?” I asked in an anxious voice.

  “Uh, he’s tall with gray hair and a goatee. He reminds me of an actor whose name I can’t remember. Some guy who used to be in old movies.”

  “Good,” I said with relief. “What are you doing for him?”

  Julie held up a thick file in her hand. “He gave me a research project, something about competing security interests in forklifts and other equipment at a big factory that’s about to go into bankruptcy. There are claims by two banks and three companies that sold the equipment. I’m supposed to read all the documents and prepare a chart telling him which companies are secured as to each piece of property and for how much.”

  “That sounds interesting,” I replied.

  Julie gave me a strange look. “Are you kidding?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Julie shook her head. “I’ll see you at lunch. Until then, I’ll have my head stuck in article nine of the uniform commercial code.”

  I entered the office, which was as fancy as the office at the courthouse had been plain. I introduced myself to a woman in her thirties and gave her the envelope from Judge Cannon.

  “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to one of two chairs in front of her desk. “Mr. Carpenter will want to meet you as soon as he finishes his conference call.”

  I sat down and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. The secretary ignored me. Both Julie and Vince Colbert were already busy on projects. I knew it was only the first day, but I already felt behind. Another fifteen minutes passed. In between phone calls, which she seemed to be able to handle without consulting Mr. Carpenter, the secretary’s fingers flew across the keyboard. I wanted to be productive. But there was nothing to do except become intimately familiar with every detail of the room. More time passed. Finally, the secretary seemed to notice my existence again. She picked up the phone and told Mr. Carpenter that I was waiting to see him. The office door behind her opened, and a man matching Julie’s description entered the room.

  Mr. Carpenter had a slender build and extended his hand in a way that struck me as slightly effeminate. However, when I shook his hand, the grip was firm.